


Rest My Head at Night, Content

by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Endearments, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gentle Sex, Gift Fic, Good Friend Eskel (The Witcher), Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining, Slow Build, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Vesemir is So Done (The Witcher), Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28956144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: It takes Geralt seven years.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 41
Kudos: 443





	Rest My Head at Night, Content

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiberaMeDelailah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiberaMeDelailah/gifts).



> Written for the lovely Isa who won the gifted fic to celebrate 100 subscribers! Hope you like it, love. ❤
> 
> The prompt was friends to lovers with top!Jaskier.

I.

It takes him far too long to realise that he actually likes the damn bard.

Jaskier has been traveling on and off with him for years now. Geralt couldn't really say how many; he hasn't kept track. He does notice that Jaskier ages. Grows up. The lankiness of youth gives way to broad shoulders and firm thighs, and the first time he notices stubble on the bard's cheeks Geralt's heart does a peculiar little flip in his chest.

No matter. He's a Witcher, and Jaskier is human, and he's not a whore, no matter the rumours about bards in general and Jaskier in particular. Geralt is _in_ human, and for all the flowery language the bard employs to describe him and all the far too gentle and entirely unnecessary touches he bestows upon Geralt, that difference stands between them like a chasm.

Even if Geralt wanted to fuck Jaskier, he wouldn't. Paying for sex is one thing. Sullying their friendship that way - because that is what is between them, regardless of how steadfastly he may deny it - is another.

And besides, he doesn't _want_ to fuck the bard.

* * *

II.

Alright, so maybe he _does_ want to fuck the bard, but it's not like he's the only one who does. Jaskier has probably slept with more people in his meager twenty-four years upon this earth than Geralt has in his… far too many years. 

(Yes, he did get his head out of his arse at one point and asked Jaskier how old he is. He's not that stupid.)

In any case, it's a rare night where they are in any sort of settlement, be it hovel, city or palace, that Jaskier doesn't creep into their room sometime in the wee hours of the night, stinking of sex.

(They share a room. It's an expedient decision. There's no need for them to pay twice the necessary amount when one room is enough.)

(Rooms with one bed are usually smaller, and therefore cheaper.)

Smelling other people on Jaskier didn't really bother Geralt, until it did. He doesn't want to remember the first time it did, but he may as well wish to forget the agony of the Trials, or how to swing a sword.

Jaskier had been drunk off his tits, stumbling into furniture and causing a racket that threatened to wake up the whole inn. Geralt had grabbed him by the front of his doublet (which had been inside out) and yanked him into the room. Jaskier had squeaked, affronted by the rough handling, and then flopped dramatically back onto the bed.

"I think- I'm a _little_ drunk," he'd said, and then he giggled.

"You're absolutely shit-faced." Geralt had tugged off the bard's boots, then pulled him up and wrestled the doublet off his arms. Jaskier tried to help, trying being the operative word. When Geralt pulled off his trousers, Jaskier had giggled again.

"At least buy me a drink first," he'd slurred, and Geralt snorted, hooking his arm behind the bard's knees to lift him fully onto the mattress.

He'd inhaled, his face hovering over Jaskier's groin.

The bard didn't smell of some woman, not like the unmistakable slightly sour smell of a cunt.

Jaskier had fucked a man, and Geralt had almost dropped him.

It wasn't that he has a problem with Jaskier fucking men. He had honestly assumed the bard swung both ways for a long time. But having the evidence literally right under his nose pulled the rug out from under him, so to speak.

To be honest, it would be hypocritical to hold it against the bard. Geralt himself has fucked people of all genders. He grew up in a castle full of men and boys, for crying out loud - nearly all of the Witchers had their first time with another trainee or one of the youngest Witchers, that was just what happened.

But the knowledge has niggled at him ever since.

Jaskier likes men.

Jaskier likes _Geralt_.

Hm.

* * *

III.

Geralt has known Jaskier seven years when he comes to a conclusion that makes his face go hot and his stomach roil.

It's nothing special that brings forth this conclusion. They're in some tavern somewhere in Lyria, and Jaskier is performing one of his newer songs, something about a wyvern the Witcher fought a couple of weeks ago; Geralt isn't really listening.

Geralt is watching the bard.

It's been a good season for them both. Jaskier has had a couple of very well-received songs, got invited to a few banquets, and is in generally good spirits and excellent health. Geralt, too, can't complain. People have been paying him with very little haggling and he hasn't gotten seriously injured in a while, something he always appreciates.

They're flush with coin. Geralt has spent the evening watching his bard dance around the room and getting at least pleasantly tipsy with the really rather good local vodka, and that's when the aforementioned conclusion manifests in his mind, while Jaskier is reaching a high note he shouldn't be able to reach and then smiling, unbearably smug.

He doesn't _like_ Jaskier. He's _in love_ with Jaskier.

Geralt drops his glass; vodka spills everywhere, soaks into his trousers. He's staring at nothing as his thoughts whirl, and he's so preoccupied with the slowly rising sense of panic that he doesn't notice that Jaskier's performance has apparently come to an end. Doesn't notice, anyway, until Jaskier slides onto the bench next to him with a happy sigh.

"Oh, I am _starving_ , thank you, dear," he exclaims as he pulls the plate Geralt had ordered for him closer and proceeds to stuff his face with the cold lunch, sausages and bread and a pear, and Geralt has to consciously unclench his hands.

He half turns on the bench, watches Jaskier eat. The man knows how to behave, knows his manners, and even in places like this one, he manages to eat in a rather prim fashion. There's no grease on his fingers or the corners of his mouth, no crumbs in his lap.

"What," the bard asks between bites, "is there something on my face?"

He's still a little flushed from his performance; his pupils are wide. Geralt imagines how the man would look if there were a different reason for the flush, for the blown pupils. He knows what he looks like in the aftermath, knows what he sounds like, even. The knowledge pains him, all of a sudden.

"No," he says, a little too gruffly. "I'll go check on Roach."

He's not running away. After all, he really does check on Roach.

(She's fine. She bites him because he disturbs her during dinner.)

* * *

IV.

This new knowledge sits in Geralt's gut like a stone, heavy and distracting. They travel together for another week before he makes up some excuse and leaves Jaskier behind in Rivia, safely installed in some ancient countess's mansion.

Jaskier is rather perplexed by this, but Geralt doesn't let himself be swayed by either the frown or the eyelashes batted at him, and he throws himself into contracts like a man possessed.

This is what he was made for: fighting monsters, saving children and idiots from them, getting paid badly and sleeping under the stars, alone with Roach. He's not supposed to think about how soft his best friend's lips might be, how strong his scent is when he has just finished performing, how right it feels when they share a bed and he wakes up with Jaskier clinging to him.

"Fuck," he tells his campfire one evening. He's just outside Riedbrune; there are nekker nests that need taking care of. There's a chill in the air. If he wants to escort Jaskier back to Oxenfurt and make it to Kaedwen before the weather gets bad, he needs to pick the bard up soon. It's just… he's not sure that he's ready to face him. Not sure that he will be within the next decade or two, if he's honest.

There's the very deliberate breaking of a branch from inside the trees, and a moment later Eskel steps out of the shadows. He's smiling, and Geralt feels the tension he's carried in his shoulders for the last two weeks slip away.

"Knew I recognised that ugly voice," Eskel says as he steps into the light of the fire, and Geralt stands to embrace him. Meeting another Witcher by chance is rare enough; meeting one of his brothers is a gift.

"Oh, you're one to talk," he replies good-naturedly, and Eskel slaps him on the back.

They talk about their season, about interesting contracts and aldermen who thought they were clever trying to swindle them out of their payment. It takes Eskel a surprising length of time to bring up the obvious.

"Where's your bard? Thought you two were attached at the hip these days."

If Geralt could blush, he would be crimson. "He's in Rivia. Needed some time alone." He wrinkles his nose. "And he's not _my_ bard."

Eskel smirks. "Then why does everyone call him yours?"

He doesn't dignify that with a response.

They sit in silence for a while before Eskel says, "You've been different. Since you started traveling with him, I mean. More like-" He cuts himself off, but Geralt knows what he was going to say. 

More like before. Before Blaviken.

"Hadn't noticed."

"Well, I have. He's good for you."

Something hot bursts to life in his chest, born from the embers that have been simmering there ever since he identified what he is feeling for the bard.

Geralt shifts on the log he's sitting on. Eskel cocks his brow and says nothing.

Finally, Geralt blurts, "I'm in love with him."

Eskel… _laughs_. "Yeah, no shit."

* * *

V.

He is back in Rivia the next day, banging on the countess's door just before dusk. A very flustered footman opens, face going pale when he recognises him. Geralt's eyes narrow.

He's led to a sitting room while the man disappears to fetch Jaskier, and Geralt forces himself into stillness. What he really wants to do is pace the fucking room, get rid of this nervous energy. It's been three weeks, and he needs Jaskier, needs to see him, needs to know he's safe and healthy, needs to hold him close and breathe him in.

The door flies open and there is Jaskier, hair windswept and cheeks ruddy from apparently having been outside, and he's smiling so brightly, and Geralt is burning up inside.

"You're back," Jaskier cries, still smiling, and then he's right there and Geralt lets himself be enveloped in strong arms, always so cleverly hidden beneath the bard's layers, and the Witcher dips his head and breathes in.

"Come to Kaer Morhen with me," he murmurs against Jaskier's hair, and the bard jumps.

"What?"

"Winter with me this year. At Kaer Morhen."

Jaskier steps back, a confused line between his brows. "Do- Wh- Geralt, did something happen while you were away?"

 _Yes, Eskel set me straight about us_. "No."

"Then what brought this on? Not that I'm saying no, I absolutely want to come, I'm just… surprised." He sucks on his teeth for a moment. "You never asked before."

"I should have. You're… important to me."

Jaskier's eyes widen, and the flush that had gone away as Jaskier warmed up is back. "You're important to me, too," he says after a moment, and then he smiles, and Geralt feels like there's a bird caged behind his ribs.

It takes him a moment to understand that it's his heart, beating fast.

* * *

VI.

Lambert already knows Jaskier, it turns out.

"Met on Belleteyn a couple years ago," Lambert says with a smirk, in response to Geralt's look after he has clapped the bard on the back so hard he almost sends him straight into a wall. "Boy can hold his liquor, gotta give him that."

"Are you sure you mean Jaskier? Because the Jaskier I know can't hold his liquor for shit."

Said bard puffs up his cheeks as they make their way into the great hall. "Excuse me, I absolutely can. You just happen to always catch me when I've been imbibing for a while."

"Lambert's moonshine will put you off alcohol for the rest of your life," Eskel puts in, and the introductions are made, ignoring Lambert's offended muttering.

They soon make their way upstairs, weary from travel. Jaskier decided that he'd prefer to stay with Geralt, if he doesn't mind.

"Drafty old castle in winter, there's no way I'll survive the season without additional body heat."

Geralt doesn't mind at all.

* * *

VII.

When Geralt wakes up in _his_ room, in _his_ bed, with Jaskier pressed tightly to his back, he thinks he's still dreaming.

The feeling doesn't really go away, not until it's evening and Jaskier slips out of his clothes and under the furs again, pushing himself fully against Geralt even though the room is near scorching. The bard winds an arm around his waist and pushes his head into the crook of his arm and makes a noise of such contentment that Geralt can't contain his chuckle.

"Comfortable?"

"Extremely, my dear." He snuggles closer, somehow, even though that should be impossible. "Your brothers are delightful," he says against Geralt's ribs, against the spot where his heart beats heavily.

"They're crude idiots," he counters, and Jaskier chortles.

"That too." He's quiet for a while, his breath puffing against Geralt's skin. It's very distracting. "Thank you," he finally murmurs, "for bringing me here. I've- I've wanted this for a long time."

"Need to get your material somewhere," Geralt says lightly, but Jaskier shakes his head.

"That's not why." He tilts his head back to look at Geralt; now he can feel his breath against his cheek. "I wanted to… I didn't want to leave you. Or- Didn't want you to leave _me_."

Geralt's heart skips. Then it beats faster. "Jaskier-"

"You're not my friend," Jaskier says, then adds quickly, "not _just_ my friend. You're my _life_ , Geralt, and it has taken me far too long to muster up the courage to say this."

His eyes are so blue, even in the semi-darkness of the room.

"I'm in love with you," Geralt blurts before Jaskier can continue. Considering he's kept his silence on many things in his long life, recognising what he feels seems to have loosened Geralt's tongue to an uncomfortable degree. The bard's eyes grow round as saucers. 

"You're _what_?"

"I love you, Jaskier. That's why I left you in Rivia."

"That… doesn't make any sense."

He growls, rubs a hand over his face. Fucking _words_. "I didn't understand what I was feeling, until I did. It scared me."

Jaskier is still staring at him. His heartbeat thunders in Geralt's ears,

"We're idiots," he finally says, and Geralt frowns. Jaskier laughs lightly. "Here we are, apparently pining for each other for ages, and both of us too blind to realise."

"What do you mean?"

"It means I'm in love with you, too, you big lout." And then he rises up onto his elbow, leans over Geralt, and kisses him.

Outside, the moon rises, and when Geralt falls asleep, he's curled around Jaskier, his head resting on the bard's chest, his heart full and his lips kiss-swollen.

* * *

VIII.

Lambert apparently has _Opinions_ about them. Geralt is interested in precisely none of them.

"I'm just saying-"

"Lambert, dear heart, do shut up."

Apparently Jaskier also doesn't care to hear what Lambert thinks. Instead he installs himself on Geralt's lap during breakfast with what can only be called unrepentant smugness.

Lambert pouts, Eskel grins into his breakfast, and Vesemir rolls his eyes.

"No fucking at the table," is all he says on the matter, and Jaskier chokes on his tea.

* * *

IX.

Knowing Jaskier as well as he does, Geralt is surprised that the bard doesn't even attempt to take things further than kissing and cuddling at any given opportunity for at least a week.

Surprised and, if he's being honest, mildly disappointed.

He has had to listen to Jaskier fuck for years, has had to sleep next to him when he smelled of other people, and now that he is apparently Jaskier's lover, the bard has for some reason decided to take it _slow_.

What the fuck.

At the end of that week, Geralt has, quite frankly, had enough. He corners Jaskier in the library one afternoon, after their chores and training are done, caging him into the chair Jaskier is lounging in, a book open on his lap.

"Why haven't we fucked yet?"

Jaskier stares up at him, mouth agape. Then he bursts out laughing. Geralt growls and steps away, scowling, and Jaskier gasps for air and tries to calm himself. "I'm- Oh, I'm sorry, dear, I didn't mean to-" He's interrupted by a fresh attack of giggles, and then he puts his book away and gets to his feet. "I really am sorry. You caught me off guard, is all."

Geralt scowls some more.

"The reason we haven't yet is that… I don't want to rush this. I want… I don't want this to be-" He grimaces. "Tainted, I guess."

"How could it be tainted?"

"Because-" Jaskier bites his lip; his fingers are moving against each other restlessly. "Because I'm not sure if you'd want what I want."

"Try me."

There's a flush rising on Jaskier's cheeks; Geralt reaches out and cups his jaw. The bard takes a deep breath. "I want to fuck you."

 _Huh_.

Geralt steps closer, until he can wind his arm around the bard. Jaskier bites his lip again. "Alright," Geralt says, and Jaskier's breath hitches.

* * *

X.

They stumble into the room, and Geralt throws the door shut with enough force to shake dust loose from the walls. Jaskier laughs.

"Someone's eager."

Geralt growls and shoves the bard; he trips over his own feet and falls back onto the bed with an, "Oof!"

"I've had to listen to you for years, bard, have had to lie next to you while I could smell some girl's cunt on you," and oh, how prettily his songbird flushes at that. "It's my turn now," he adds, and Jaskier's eyes flutter.

"Fuck, get- get over here."

Geralt is on him in a flash. Their kiss is heated, desperate, teeth knocking together. Jaskier's fingers dig into his hips as they rut against each other.

"Gods, Geralt, I can't tell you how often I've thought about this." Jaskier is breathless as they tear at each other's clothes. His pupils are blown wide, and he smells like pure need. "I thought about you when I was with others," he gasps as Geralt licks and sucks his way down his throat, and the Witcher's head snaps up at that.

"What."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"Tell me." He has no idea why he asks. He shouldn't want to know what Jaskier was thinking about while he was balls deep in someone else, but a part of him does want it with an intensity he can't explain. "Please," he adds, and Jaskier's face softens.

"I've known you so intimately for so long," he says, his hands stroking gently up Geralt's sides. "I know your scent, the way your body feels against mine, your hands on my skin. I'd find someone who had something that reminded me of you - something about their facial features, or hair so blond it's almost white. And when I was inside them, I pretended it was you, because I wanted it so much but never thought you'd feel the same."

Geralt stares down at him, his throat tight. Jaskier's face is flushed, and he bites his lip again.

"Please say something."

"You were right."

"About what?"

He leans down, and Jaskier tips his head to meet him. "We're both idiots."

He has touched Jaskier often over the years. It's unavoidable when they pretty much live in each other's pocket much of the time. Those touches were always purposeful, and purposefully neutral. Efficient. Treat a wound. Pull him out of a brawl. Carry him upstairs when he's drunkenly passed out.

Now Geralt can touch for touch's sake. He runs his fingers through the pelt on Jaskier's chest, through the hair on his legs. He traces the shape of the bard's ribs, cups the jut of his hip bones in his palms. He touches, and he tastes, and he listens when he takes Jaskier into his mouth. He's not surprised to find him just as vocal in bed as he is at any other time. A part of him, the one that has had to listen to the man's escapades for years, wondered how much of it had been a performance, but now that he has Jaskier melting into the mattress under his ministrations, he can smell no artifice. Only raw desire.

Jaskier tugs him up and off his cock with a groan, pulls him into a kiss. "Gods, Geralt," he pants against his mouth, and Geralt _needs_.

He rolls off of the bard and digs out the bottle of oil he keeps in his bedside table, and Jaskier takes the opportunity to touch him, now. His hands stroke down Geralt's back, thumbs tracing the line of his spine, fingers digging gently into the dip of his waist. He cups Geralt's arse, squeezes, and the sound he makes at the sight has Geralt pressing down into the mattress.

They settle on their sides, one of Geralt's legs thrown over Jaskier's; oil slick fingers whisper over his cock, his balls. Geralt kisses him, just because he can. The first press of one of Jaskier's long fingers into him has him groaning into the bard's mouth.

It doesn't surprise him that Jaskier is an attentive lover, that he pays close attention to how he responds. He works Geralt open slowly, gently, clearly relishing the way the Witcher falls apart for him, and Geralt is more than ready to let himself do just that.

"You're magnificent," Jaskier murmurs against his lips, three fingers slowly pumping in and out, and Geralt whines more at the praise than the feeling. "My beautiful, kind, lovely wolf," Jaskier continues, fingertips finding Geralt's sweet spot, and he can't, he's gone, the slow build up and the words enough to shove him over the edge. He buries his face in the column of Jaskier's throat and comes messily between them, gasping helplessly as the bard brushes a soft kiss against his forehead. "Oh, that's it, love," he says, keeps stroking that spot inside Geralt, and the Witcher shakes with the sensations.

Jaskier asks if he wants to stop, if it's too much, and Geralt rolls onto his front and spreads his legs, looking at Jaskier over his shoulder. "Need you," is all he says, and then the bard is on him.

He's slick and open, and _empty_ , until he's not. Jaskier pushes into him the same way he had fingered him - slow, gentle, with endless patience. Except now he's panting where he's propped up on his arms above Geralt, his legs wrapped around the Witcher's, and Geralt tilts his hips and moans.

When Jaskier bottoms out, hips flush against the curve of Geralt's arse, they still, for a long moment, their breathing loud in the small space. Finally he makes a soft noise, so full of longing and adoration that it makes Geralt shiver.

It's slow, and unlike any sex Geralt has ever had. Jaskier's love is in every move, in every touch, and Geralt wants to crawl inside the feeling, wants to stay in this moment the rest of his days. It's not fucking, he thinks, no. This is making love, as much as part of him shies away from the description. 

When he comes again, it's gentle, almost, a heady rush of sensation that washes over him, has him clench tight around the hot length of his bard inside him. Jaskier makes a strangled sort of noise before he drapes himself over Geralt, arm encircling his chest to hold him close.

"I love you," he breathes, again and again, with every thrust that drives him seemingly ever deeper into Geralt, as though he's trying to bury himself inside the Witcher, never to come out again. Geralt moans his name, grasps at the arm around him, and Jaskier groans and stills. Geralt can feel him twitching inside him, imagines he can feel the heat of his release.

They only part enough for Jaskier to slide out of him, and then they are entangled again, heedless of sweat and come and oil. They've waited too long for this to pay attention to mild inconveniences like that.

"I love you," Jaskier murmurs, his forehead pressed against Geralt's, and the Witcher pulls him closer.

"Say it again."

His bard smiles, chuckles. Then he pulls back slightly, so he can look Geralt in the eye, and says, "I love you, Geralt," and again and again, "I love you, _I love you_ ," until Geralt shuts him up with another kiss.

Later, they will fuck, after Geralt has returned the favour, has made love to Jaskier, has made him unravel on his mouth and fingers and cock. There will be marks on skin, destroyed furniture, a stern talking to from Vesemir about doors having been invented for a reason.

Now, there is only them, curled around each other beneath the furs, with Jaskier whispering tender words into Geralt's skin, and it's good. It's right, and Geralt is, for the first time in a long time, content.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/formerly_as_g?s=09)!


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